Mississippi Jack: Being an Account of the Further Waterborne Adventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman, Fine Lady, and Lily of the West (36 page)

And with that, he turns to go join his men, leaving me still standing there in astonishment. After a moment I turn and go with Tepeki to have dinner with her and her mother, my thoughts still churning.

What the hell are these men here for?

The dinner is good, a kind of stew made with meat and rice, eaten with the fingers with great gusto amongst Tepeki's sisters and little brothers. Her mother is nice to me, and I think she is pleased when I sign
Food. Good. Thanks.
And I was right, Tepeki is the chief's daughter.

Later that evening, more chiefs from the Five Nations arrive and there is great ceremony of welcome and much joyous dancing. My group of jangle-ankled, buckskin-clad dancers shine, and we are much appreciated.

The celebration goes on far into the night, but eventually things calm down and I bid Tepeki good night and go into Lightfoot's tent to sleep. I don't know what he told them, whether I was his wife, or his daughter, or what, but here is where I end up this day.

I curl up on the ground, wrapped in a hide blanket that Tepeki has given me, and close my eyes.

I am awakened much later when Lightfoot comes in to sleep. After I hear him settle in, I ask in the darkness of the tepee, "Lightfoot, the girls gave me a Shawnee name today. What does
Wah-chinga-sote-caweena-que-tonk
mean?"

"She-Who-Dances-Like-Crazy-Rabbit."

Hmmm ... Iguess that's all right. I've been called worse.

After a bit, I again have a question. "Lightfoot, what do you think those English agents are up to?"

"Don't know. But I 'spect they're up to no good. Prolly stirrin' up trouble. 'Tween the settlers and the Injuns, is what I figure. Bad medicine."

I think on that for a while and am about to drop off to sleep again when Lightfoot says, quietly, "You know that Katy girl?"

"Yes?"

"Nex' time you talk to her..."

"Yes?"

"Tell her Lightfoot's willin'..."

"Just tell her that?"

"Yep. She'll know what I mean."

Silence falls on us again, and I close my eyes and slip back into sleep.

Good night, Jaimy. You wouldn't believe where I am right now, but be safe and soon ... soon...

I help make breakfast with Chee-a-quat's wife, Nee-ah-hanta, a proud, handsome woman, brisk in her preparations for the morning meal, and not at all awed by my presence. To her, a girl is a girl, dark- or light-skinned, and, as such, should help tend the fire and stir the pot. I do it, of course, grateful for the chance to help in return for her hospitality.

The breakfast is a porridge made mostly of rice and berries, as far as I can tell, and when it is hot enough, I take two bowls into the tepee and put them in front of Chee-a-quat and Lightfoot, and in return I get a couple of grunts that I take for thanks. Then I duck back out to get my own and to help Nee-ah-hanta feed her two kids, a boy of about two and a girl of about four. I plop the plump little fellow on my lap, sing him a song, and manage to spoon a good bit of the porridge into him. After I clean him up, I sign
thanks
to my hostess and go off to find Tepeki.

I find her in the middle of the village, where more chiefs are arriving with their bands of warriors. Tepeki's father, as chief of this village, welcomes them all, and there is much
public exchanging of formal greetings and gifts, after which the chiefs duck into tepees to talk in private. The village continues to buzz with excitement, with much sparking going on twixt the boys and girls, same as it ever was, no matter what the country or who the people.

I haven't seen the British agents yet, but I am keeping my eyes peeled. When I got up this morning, I had put my hair in twin braids, so as to not stand out so much with my shaggy blond mop. I also keep Crow Jane's shawl over my shoulders to cover up if need be. No telling who those agents are or what they're up to.

Tepeki and I wander about, hand in hand, taking in the sights and getting caught up in all the excitement. Every party that enters the town is dressed in their finest, and some fine stuff there is. There are feathers and plumes and brightly colored cloth. The men of some tribes have full heads of hair while others have plucked theirs to form high crests down the centers of their heads. Some wear feathered headdresses, while some sport turbans. Tepeki points out who's Creek and who's Chickasaw and all that, and—

"Hey, girl."

I look up alarmed. The British Captain of Cavalry stands next to me. I put on my frightened-doe look, which ain't hard considerin' the fact that if I get recognized by these people it's the noose for me for sure.

"Yes, you. Come here."

I drop Tepeki's hand and whip Crow Jane's shawl up over my head and look about for an escape route but find none as he grabs my arm and drags me out of the village and into the woods. I try to tug away, but his hand is too strong. I hear Tepeki running off. I think about pulling out my shiv, but no, not yet.

"You come along, girl. Come on, I won't hurt you. We'll just have a little talk, is all."

We come to a small clearing and he makes me sit down on the grass that grows there. I gather my skirt under me as he sits down beside me. He reaches out and pulls my shawl back off my head.

"Now, my little light-haired woodland sprite, let's have that little talk." He points to his chest and says, "Me Richard Allen." Then he points at my chest and says, "What's
your
name?"

"Wa—wah-chinga-sote-caweena-que-tonk," says Dances-Like-Rabbit, feeling very much like a scared rabbit under the fierceness of his gaze. I notice he has a scar on his right cheek. Probably from a saber, I'm thinking.

"Why, that's quite a mouthful, ain't it, sweetheart," he says softly. "I think I'll just call you She-Is-Pretty-Thing-What-Showed-Up-in-the-Woods-Against-All-Odds-to-Cheer-Me-for-a-Little-While-in-This-Godforsaken-Hellhole-of-a-Country. She-Is-Pretty-Thing, for short. What do you think of that, Pretty-Thing?"

I decide a little smile on Pretty-Thing's part wouldn't hurt, as he is quite good-looking—slim, tall, with a rugged yet fine-boned face—the very picture of the dashing young officer, a type I have always found most attractive. Plus his words are sweet, and what could it hurt?

It could hurt a lot. He takes my smile for Full-Speed-Ahead-Not-a-Moment-to-Lose and slides his hand up the inside of my leg.

"
Wha
—" I gasp. In my shock I almost say
what,
but change it to a
wah!
of shock and surprise.

A smile spreads over his face. "I've often wondered what Indian girls wear under their skirts. Now, Pretty-Thing, I know. Sort of like what people wonder about Scotsmen, eh? But you don't understand a word I'm saying, do ye? Well, maybe you'll understand this." Without taking his hand off my inner thigh, he leans over, puts his other hand behind my head, pulls me forward, and puts his mouth on mine.

My eyes open even wider.

"How did you like that? Bet your Indian fellows don't do anything like that. How about if I was to buy you? Give old Sasquatch some firewater and haul you away with me? What do you think of that, girl? It'd be better than living here with these savages, wouldn't it, you Pretty-Thing, you?"

A long rifle barrel appears at the Captain's temple. He starts and then looks cautiously to the side and then up the barrel to the man standing there, his finger tight on the trigger. "She ain't fer sale, soldier boy," he says, with real threat in his voice. Lightfoot is well named—I did not hear him coming and neither did Richard Allen.

"You watch your mouth, man," says the Captain, his eyes gone as flinty as Lightfoot's. His hand goes to the sword that hangs by his side.

I quickly sign
This Man. I. No. Speak. Paleface.

Lightfoot nods, understanding what I mean. "And you watch what you're doin' when you're here in this place, soldier boy," he says.

Captain Allen gets to his feet. Lightfoot moves the barrel of the gun to point between the officer's eyes. I get up and stand behind Lightfoot, my hands on his waist, my face all wide-eyed and wondering as I peer at the officer.

"And if I do not do that, renegade?" asks Allen, unabashed.

"I'll kill you and take yer scalp and put it on my belt here with the others. Tell ever'body it come all the way from London just to hang here," says Lightfoot. "And you watch yer own mouth when it comes to callin' a man sumthin', y'hear?"

Captain Allen's eyes go to the grisly bunches of hair and dried skin that hang at Lightfoot's middle and he says nothing. Lightfoot grins at the man's discomfort.

"Draw that pigsticker and you're one dead Englishman," he says. "Remember, soldier boy, you're on Shawnee land here, and I am Shawnee and you sure as hell ain't."

"She's a white girl. You have no right to keep her here," says the Captain.
He
is not smiling.

"She's Shawnee, too, and you got no right to take her away from here." I reflect on the truth of this statement, in that I
was
made a member of the tribe just yesterday. Then I hear sounds of drumming coming from the direction of the village. Lightfoot puts up his gun and says, "You best go tend to yer lobsterbacks, soldier boy. Sounds like the great man's comin' in."

With a final glare, Captain Allen turns and goes to form up his men for the arrival of Tecumseh.

"I thank you, Lightfoot," I say, putting my hand on his arm and looking up at him gratefully.

"
Wah,
" he says, striding off. "Go sit with the women, girl."

Meekly, I go do it. But before I do that, I go back to the tepee I share with Lightfoot and get the bundle of clothes that I wore here, pull out the drawers and, with my knife, cut them off just below the crotch. Then I put them on under my leather skirt. I reflect that I might have cut them a little bit farther down, but too late now.

I join up with Tepeki and the other girls, and we watch the coming of the great Chief Tecumseh and his band of about twenty warriors. He's a tall man, almost six foot, with a fine, proud bearing. He has a long, thin nose and olive skin and hazel eyes that flash with determination and a certain cheerfulness. On his head he wears a red turbanlike headdress from which hangs a single feather on a string of wampum, and on his body buckskin leggings and a jacket of the same, bound around by a red sash. All in all, a splendid-looking man. I wish I could have Lightfoot by my side to translate what's being said by him and others as the welcome is made, but I can't. For one thing, he can't be caught hanging around with a girl, and for another, I can't draw any more attention to myself than I already have. So I'll just have to guess at things. One thing I don't have to guess at is the amount of esteem in which everyone here holds this man.

After Tecumseh has settled into the largest tepee in the town, to hold court with all the other chiefs, and all the young warriors have been thoroughly checked out by us girls, we are of a mind to sneak off for another swim at the women's bathing place. There are some new girls with us, undoubtedly girls from other tribes. From their looks in my direction, I suspect my Shawnee friends wish to show me off, and that's all right. After all, I
am
a performer by trade.

But it is not to be. Not now, anyhow, for when the mob of us, chattering away, are no more than halfway to the bend in the river, an older woman bursts upon us, waving a long ladle and pointing downstream, reminding me of nothing so much as good old Peg, back at the Lawson Peabody, scattering us serving girls back to our chores when we would grow lazy of a summer's afternoon.

It becomes plain to me that we are to gather food, and we all change direction and head for a group of canoes tied up to the bank. The girls take this change of plans with good grace and run laughing and calling out
yiyiyiyiyiyiyi!
to the boats and clamber in. Tepeki chooses one and motions me to join her and I do, picking up a paddle and shoving us off into the water.

When we head downstream, I find that there is a paddling song in which all the girls join and to which I try to add my voice, mainly in wordless harmony, and then when we pull into the marshes where the food grows, they fall into what I know are call-and-response songs—songs wherein one voice calls out a verse, mainly concerning another member of the party, like, say, what particular boy one particular girl has her eye on, and there are hoots of laughter and that particular girl gets to pick another girl or boy or whatever to comment on, and so on and so on.

We come to a thicket of rushes, and Tepeki puts up her paddle and pulls the tall greenery over into the boat and begins shaking it, and wonder of wonders, black kernels of wild rice fall into the bottom of the canoe. It is early in the summer, so not all the rice is ripe, but some is and we gather what we can. We then move on to a growth of cattails, and the girls take both the brown-capped stalks and the roots of the plant.

Satisfied that we have done enough, we head back to the village to prepare lunch. The rice is divided up by the women, the cattail roots are peeled and pounded to a pulp, and the cattails themselves are twisted from their stems to form a golden yellow powder that, when water is added, turns into another paste, which can be baked into a bread.
Crafty people, these Shawnees,
I reflect, biting into a hot cattail cake and again looking out on the festivities of the day.

It is then that I finally spy the two English Special Agents. They have come out of their tepee and stand blinking in the sunlight, with an Indian man dressed in white man's clothing by their side. The older one, a disagreeable toadish-looking man with thick lips and a half-bald head, is dressed all in black, while the other one, a large and very handsome fellow, is dressed in navy blue, suggesting a possible naval officer. The younger man looks damned familiar, but I can't quite place him, and I can't stand there staring at him, that's for sure. I duck back out of sight behind a tepee and tuck the shawl tight about my face and peek out.

The Indian man, whom I take to be their interpreter, says something to them and points down the row of tepees to one near where I am standing.